Conclusions
by Shadow Wasserson
Summary: After the war, the Avatar has unfinished business at the Southern Air Temple.


Disclaimer: I don't own _Avatar: the Last Airbender_. It belongs to Nickelodeon. What a surprise.

A/N: "Rud" is Sanskrit for weeping.

* * *

**Conclusions**

After the war was over, after all the pain and hardship and change, after the Fire Lord had been defeated and a new one was in his place, after the first glimpse of peace had appeared on the horizon, the Avatar still had one more job to do.

"Aang, are you sure about this?" Katara's hand on his shoulder was a comfort, perhaps the last one he would have for a while.

"Yes. I think that everyone can get along without me, at least for a little bit." Aang gave a wry smile. _Well, we can hope._

"No, I mean, are you sure you want to do this alone? I would be glad to come with you, you know that… And Sokka and Toph too."

"I know, but this is just something I have to do alone." What he couldn't say was that he didn't want her to see what it might do to him. He was the Avatar, and he was getting older. He had to be strong, for Katara's sake. But he also couldn't put this off any longer.

"Aang." Katara swung him around so that he faced her directly. "You _never_ have to be alone. Never. You know that."

"I know, it's alright. Really. And anyway, I'll have Appa. I'll be fine." The Avatar gave his most winning smile.

Katara let go of his arms, but her reluctance was written clearly in her eyes. "Well if you need anything…" she made a tired gesture indicating the sparse surroundings. She respected his decision, and knew he needed to go now, before more endless meetings got in the way. But that didn't mean she had to like it.

* * *

The silence of the Southern Air Temple was just as deafening as it had been the last time. The absence of the laughter and chanting of monks, of the groaning of bison and the trilling of lemurs, weighed heavily in Aang's chest, and this time he had no distractions or hope of survivors to keep him optimistic. Cracks in the once meticulously tidy plaza were resplendent with moss and grasses, and a layer of dust so thick it was almost soil lay on every worn surface. The place Aang had called home for his entire childhood was, ever so slowly, going back to nature. And perhaps that was as it should be. But first, the spirits of the temple needed to be put to rest.

Aang let Appa loose to wander the high mountain meadows and set about his task. Picking through the ruins of the Air Temple, he soon found himself clambering up and down the mountainside, clinging to the steep face as he peered into the clefts between rocks and the folds of long-rotted cloth, searching for the bones of the man that he had regarded as his father. The task turned out to be nearly impossible, as the bones had been flung far and wide by the tempestuous winds of the Avatar State, but he kept at it, placing each bone as he found it into a cloth sack.

By the time he found his third forearm, he began to realize that he was probably finding the firebenders' bones as well as Gyatso's. The cyclone he had summoned had mixed them up in a hopeless jumble. Aang sat down to rest. There was no way he could distinguish between the bones, and if he wanted to be sure, he'd have to bring them all. But did the Fire Nation soldiers deserve the same honor as Gyatso? No, of course not… they were murderers! And the Fire Nation had their own way of honoring their dead. As Zuko had told him after the battle, the spirits of the dead all went to the Eternal Fire, and only the ceremony surrounding them distinguished between the lowest criminal and the highest noble.

But the Air Monks did not distinguish either. As far as Aang knew, all Air Nomads who died went to the same place. Aang considered the bones. They all looked the same, like weathered, white wood. Maybe it didn't matter, where they were from. Wasn't that part of what the Guru had taught him, that all people were as one? The people who these bones belonged to were Fire Nation, were murderers, but they were humans too, and should be treated as such.

The sack was full and bulging and the sun was setting by the time Aang felt that he had finished. He called Appa, and gently set the sack down in the saddle for the night. He wasn't entirely sure he knew the way, having attended only a few funerals, but he trusted that he would recognize the place when he found it. And indeed, one morning and several mountain peaks later, he found a spot that, though overgrown with brush, looked as though it just might have once been a landing platform for bison.

The autumn winds were cold and strong, and Aang's robes whipped around him as he climbed up the narrow path that led from the platform. It was choked with vegetation, and the branches scratched at any exposed skin, grabbing at loose clothing. The sack was terribly heavy, much more so than he had anticipated, and Aang began to wonder why he had decided to do this in the first place. But he knew that he was going in the right direction when he came upon the first _rud_ stick, still standing after all this time.

The _rud_ stick was carved out of weeping bamboo and stuck out at the side of the path, at the perfect angle to catch the wind. The wind blew through a system of holes that had been carved into the hollow bamboo, and it sang like a pipe, howling a wordless melody to the sky. It was only the first, and there would be more as the path climbed upward. If he strained his ears, Aang even thought he could hear them ahead, sounding out his path.

Aang went on.

By the time he reached the top, Aang was exhausted, but he had reached his destination. The top of the mountain was relatively flat, and in the spring would be a beautiful green meadow. But now, in the autumn, the plants were all dying, carpeting the ground in dry, crunching brown. _Rud_ sticks were spaced around, sticking out at different angles, playing notes harmonious or discordant, depending on the direction of the wind. Aang thought that it was one of the world's most beautiful sounds, and he was grateful that they had not yet fallen into decay.

Between the _rud_ sticks were platforms of loosely placed stones, and these were the real reason Aang was there. Most of the cairns seemed empty, the remains they had housed long turned to dust and blown away, but Aang could still see a bone here or there, faded and pale.

Aang walked around, gathering loose stones for the cairn. He could have made one in seconds with his bending, of course, but it wouldn't be appropriate to bend when the dead could not, and the physical labor would remind him that all people were mere flesh. At least, that is what the monks had once said.

It was tiring work. Aang had almost forgotten what it was to carry heavy objects without bending them, but it was good work, getting in touch with what it was to be a nonbender, instead of the all-powerful Avatar he had been forced to be for nearly a year. By the time he was finished his arms were sore, his fingers were raw, and his stomach was growling. But he didn't feel much like eating, and besides, he had left his rice crackers and dried fruit back with Appa.

Aang opened the sack of bones and carefully laid them out on the cairn. If it had been a proper funeral, he would have had a blanket of woven bison fur to lay them flat, and there would be an elder monk there, singing and chanting deep down in his throat like the voice of the mountains themselves. But there was no blanket and no monk, only Aang, gazing at the pathetic, incomplete bones as his heart seemed to swell and sink at the same time. Heat rose behind his eyes and he began to weep, not only for Gyatso but for the spirits of all those who had died, for strict old Ghuri and Dakyu with his weird beard and Khang the head monk, for the friends he would play airball with and his classmates he had surpassed, for the nuns at the Eastern Air Temple and the bison in their stables. And even, there on a mountaintop with only a cold wind and the long-rotted remains of his people for company, even for the spirits of the fallen Fire Nation soldiers whose bones he had collected along with Gyatso's. All had perished long ago, but were still fresh wounds for the young Avatar. So Aang wept, and the wind pressed his tears back against his face and wailed in the _rud_ sticks, adding their own lament for those who would never again ride their fierce and gentle currents.

The Avatar wept until he had no more tears to give, and, having nothing more he could do or say, he left, mumbling a half-forgotten prayer before going back down the path to Appa, and then on to the rest of life. And the wind in the high Petola peaks blew, and blew, and blew.


End file.
